


The Ghost of a Good Thing

by poemwithnorhyme



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M, date-rape drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/pseuds/poemwithnorhyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark overhears a story that could have changed everything.<br/>Warnings: Somewhat non-graphic rape and non-consensual drug use</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of a Good Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted February 16, 2011  
> Written for [ this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/tsn_kinkmeme/390.ht/ml?thread=1430406#t1430406).

The feeling which sweeps over Mark whenever he sees Eduardo Saverin is akin to a bomb, all-encompassing and independently devastating. It's not that he hasn't seen him since the lawsuits– they are still both businessmen and therefore rub shoulders with the same sort of elite. Generally, seeing him at a gathering likes this merely calls for the typical solution, that being blissful disregard of Eduardo's existence and an immediate smothering of said bomb in his chest. 

They pretend they don't see one another and so no problems develop. They have not spoken in five years.

But Sean is at this party, and that is where it all begins to tumble downhill. He was Mark's guest – a custom he played to every few months only. Eduardo is still the epitome of professional in his black suit, and Sean targets him instantly. Mark can see it in his eyes, a dance of smug satisfaction mixed with the burn of contempt.

Sean may have won in the end, but the fact that Eduardo was still on the Masthead of Facebook infuriated him; with no proper reason. Mark knew that he had to distract him. Leaving was not an option. Dustin had set this gala up personally, which led to the question of how he had not known that Eduardo would be here. 

They could have avoided this whole dilemma had they just had prior warning. This shouldn't have been left up to Mark. Sean was a grown man, but he feels like taking the easy route rather than letting this progress into something truly explosive.

Fortunately, Dustin is ahead of the game. He brings over two wonderfully generic girls to entertain Sean, and that should have been that, but it isn't. Sean just wouldn't drop the issue. Even around the girls, he is preoccupied with Eduardo. 

Sean's speech is flippant enough that he is obviously unaware of Mark's presence. Sean had always been blatant, but whenever he drank or did enough drugs to assuage the edges of his deliberately shrewd mask, he became overly honest. He shared too much, sometimes even his past plots or prospective schemes. 

Mark knew first-hand that Sean was manipulative. He had been hurt by him once – more than once, if truth be told. That being said, he could, to a certain degree, control Sean's antics. After all, he managed his money and could easily rip it out from under him with some careful preparation.

However, it was unnecessary to parade around that power. They were no longer associated with one another, and so Sean's partying ways could no longer harm Facebook's reputation. And even if he were, Mark doubted the probability of any veritable damage – his company was simply too large, too expansive. Facebook was very literally ingrained in their global culture for the foreseeable future. There would be no tripping over the wire due to one shareholder's reckless lifestyle. 

He had been so sure that Sean could not hurt him anymore. He had helped Mark rise, and was now resting on his laurels. They were finished – or so he'd thought.

The numb lull Mark had been savoring since the end of the lawsuits was rent into tatters. Wardo's specter had almost wholly dissipated, but here it is again, vivid and bent on lavishing him with unjustified guilt. He'd done the right thing; he knew that. It really hadn't been about the Phoenix club. It had been a distinctly objective business move. 

Wardo had been off hunting for advertising when that was the last thing the company needed. He had not _listened_.

Mark had needed him, and he wasn't there. Then he froze the accounts and risked everything they'd accumulated. He had become a liability. He had betrayed him first, and Mark could not stand by while his hard work was decimated by the misguided ambitions of his CFO, friend or not. 

And so, equipped with Sean's prodding, he had made the biggest mistake possible for his emotional welfare – though not, he still believed, for his company. He had not been wrong about that because look at him now. He is a billionaire. 

Yet, here Sean is, unwittingly shaking that clinging conviction, causing his very bones to chill and splinter from shame. How had he not detected the signs? There must have been some indication, because there was no way Sean was lying. As much as Mark loathed and respected him, he also understood the way he functioned. Sean exaggerated, he altered perspectives, but he never outright invented a story.

The image Sean details brands its way into the synapses of his brain, embedding themselves into his very muscle. Mark envisions it with all too perfect clarity, despite what Sean describes.

– 

“He was completely strung out... I thought I'd help him out. Give him a hand, if you know what I mean,” Sean laughs, colloquial and repulsive.

It would have certainly been Wardo's first stumbling experience with the disabling daze of drugs – man-made and mutated with the sole purpose to addle and infuse a desire which was not entirely one's own dormant craving. 

“He was about to pass out, so I, like the gentlemen I am, took him to my room so he could sleep.”

Mark could picture it so acutely, the way Sean must have ushered Wardo to his room, offering him a temptingly warm bed to sleep his high off in. Wardo would have asked about him, asked _“Mark, where is he? Where is Mark? I came all the way here...”_

_“I told you, man, he went back to sleep over an hour ago...”_

_“Sleep... Sleep sounds good.”_

Sean continues his tale, proud and oblivious to whether he was actually impressing the two girls at his side or not – nor did he seem to care if it did. “Let me tell you... we didn't get much sleep.”

Mark felt ill, the grip on his beer precarious at best. Withal, he still wasn't able to step in, to stop Sean from further disgracing Wardo's already battered dignity. All he could do was listen, frozen and horrified as the obnoxious narrative assaulted him like a train-wreck.

“I wanted to leave the room, but he told me not to go. That he wanted someone there. That he wanted me, specifically. What was I supposed to do? Leave him there all alone?”

Liar. He'd still be mumbling, _“Can't you go get Mark? Ma-ark...”_ , with a stupid grin on his face. Never Sean fucking Parker. And even if he had, it wasn't his fault. Sean had sneaked roofies into his drink for Christ's sake.

No, Mark sees how it really happened – he knew how Wardo would react. How Sean would have taken advantage.

Sean would have locked the door, stripping as Wardo snuggled in the sheets, totally unaware. He'd have a hand underneath the pillow as he rested his cheek there. But he wouldn't have been given the opportunity to nod off, because Sean would have been tugging on his jeans, sliding them down past his slender waist – soothing any objection with a calm coo.

Wardo would crawl forward, trying to get away because _“What are you doing? No, I'm so tired, leave me alone...”_ His limbs would be as heavy as molten honey, uncoordinated and slippery as he bunched up the cheap sheets below him in his endeavor just to go to sleep.

Of course Sean wouldn't let him escape. He'd grasp his hips, stalling any movement as his hand slithered up Wardo's sloppily struggling torso, unbuttoning as he went along. His shirt would hang there, open and exposing his chest as Sean would explore, tweaking and pulling at the sensitive bundle of his nipples, as though Wardo were his toy to bruise. 

“He pretty much begged for me,” Sean brags.

Mark refuses to believe that. Wardo would never ask Sean for anything, drugged or otherwise. His imagination paints the truth exactly as it is, spattered with queasy contrition.

Sean's hands would have lingered before dropping to remove the last vestiges of clothing. Then and there, what was going on should have sunk in. He should have fought earnestly, words sharp and acidic as he barraged his attacker, wriggling away as a result of sheer resolve. But that was not what happened.

In harsh reality,Wardo would have squirmed underneath Sean's ministrations, panting opposition even while his body bucked into the soft embodiment of heat behind him, feeling Sean's heavy erection line up along his backside. Against his will, his breath would have hitched, his straining heart pumping virulent lust into his claustrophobic veins. The drugs would trigger false endorphins, telling his hedonistic body that he wanted this, all the while every other part of him was clearly adverse. 

_“No... No, what is... Stop.”_

Sean would laugh, replying with a derisive _“No.”_

Wardo wouldn't have stood a chance. He was already practically a twig. There wasn't much to Sean either, but he would have had the leverage of being mostly sober – having planned this far ahead of time. Apprehension would have trickled gradually into cognition, and when it did, Wardo would have spit out insults – clumsy attempts to dissuade Sean from doing this.

 _“You gave me something,”_ breathless and indignant, _”What the hell was it?”_

Sean would have slipped one hand between tanned thighs to silence him, gripping his chin with the other in order to allow his victim to exhibit the only defiance he was capable of – those obscenely beautiful eyes of his, blown wide by pitch-black violence and tinged with a note of shredded innocence. 

_“Fuck you,”_ he'd mutter, degraded yet not quite resigned. _“You won't get away with this.”_

_“Of course I will. You won't tell Mark. He wouldn't believe you even if you did. He knows you hate me. Don't want him thinking that you're making up stories, now do we? Besides... You want this. Look at yourself, Eduardo, fucking **aching** for it.”_

And his body would be, swayed by the disarming chemicals teeming through his bloodstream, his sleep deprived cells offering no resistance. Sean's fingers would wind between his still-damp strands of hair, wrenching his head back as he kissed a path up his neck before consuming his mouth, biting slick and gentle as not to leave any traces of his traitorous affections. His hand would wander then, tapping lightly against the bones of Wardo's skinny hips, gripping his cock harder and giving it a slow jerk. 

Sean would have snapped up a bottle of lube from where he'd placed it on the bed and when his hand returned to its torture, he would no longer be chipping against raw flesh, only pacifying stinging nerves. 

Wardo would have spasmed and groaned, evidently affected as he cursed in an intoxicating flood of Portuguese - _"Eu vou te matar."_ He would have been so terribly exquisite then, mindlessly shattering so delicately - _"Eu te odeio."_

Wardo would have trembled with tears, Mark's name a constant litany because he was scared, he was aroused, and he was confused and Mark was his friend – his best friend. Why wouldn't he help him?

And that was the key, wasn't it? Even if Mark had brought him there solely to pay no heed to his needs and focus instead on his own selfish aspirations, had put him in that situation... Wardo would still be thinking of him.

Sean would have taunted him about his useless supplication, exploiting Wardo's vulnerability by whispering dirty lies and halftruths as he screwed into him. _“Suck a fucking slut, aren't you? Mark doesn't know what he's missing...”_

Accusations would drip off his poisonous tongue, planting ideas and driving the stake farther into Wardo's plummeting self-esteem, devouring every encouraging flicker of suspicion in his dark irises.

 _“Does Mark know, Wardo, darling, that you want him to fuck you?”_ he'd say, mocking, _“Have you ever told him you think of him when you jerk off?”_

– 

Sean proceeds to explain his one night stand with the famously jilted Eduardo Saverin to people who are wildly unsuitable for the intimate knowledge -“he tastes like spice” - all the while hiding behind his twisted fabrication of the event, spouting excuses like “he wanted it.” 

Bullshit. Mark knew Eduardo. Wardo hated Sean, _hated_ him. Even more after that night. And he had been so self-absorbed that he had not caught on...

Mark had possessed the audacity to assume Wardo's temper was caused by their little tiff, by his not-so-frivolous comment about needing his friend or his threat to leave him behind. Mark had not noticed that his actions were wrought from something much more significant than simply a wounded pride. He should have known.

He never boasted that he was a good friend. He wasn't. But not realizing _this_ until now? He was freaking blind. For being such a smart guy, he sure could be inexcusably dense.

Sean had raped Wardo and he had remained so oblivious, only to negligently bury the hilt of the knife deeper by tricking him into renouncing his claim on his - _their_ \- company.

Perhaps it is the copious amounts of alcohol thrumming aggressively in his blood, but he is thinking with his heart for once in his life. Mark was not one to make up for his mistakes, or to apologize; but there is a dam which has been breached, coercing his instincts into action rather than his usual passive aggressive contemplation. 

He suddenly wants to kill Sean.

“Sean,” he interrupts. His voice is tense, serious – he always is. 

Sean stands up from the couch he was sitting on, an innocuous smile quirking his lips. “Hey, Mark! Going to finally join the party? I'll get you another drink...” 

So, he was going to play dumb then, was he?

Mark didn't even hesitate. He placed his empty beer calmly on the coffee table before he reeled back his hand and let it fly right into Sean's unsuspecting face. He may have been a relatively weak guy, but his bones, no matter how little in density, were adequate enough to illustrate his mood. The gratifying strike reverberated through his knuckles – he couldn't be certain who it actually hurt more.

It didn't even matter because he knew everything. It all made sense, completing the puzzle that had always plagued the crevices of his dreams. 

_“I like standing next to you, Sean... Makes me look so tough.”_ Eduardo should have punched him that day, because yes, Sean was a lowlife and Wardo was a fragment of perfection that Mark was nowhere near worthy of.

The fame, the popularity, he'd wanted it more than a real friendship. What a fool he'd been; but he couldn't change the past. He couldn't unmake his decision, nor would he want to. He was rich now and everyone knew his name. It had been for the best... hadn't it? 

All he'd had to do to was sacrifice Wardo.

And it hadn't been easy, but he'd done it, and could therefore do it again. Except now he feels protective, he feels responsible, and he feels every bit the asshole everyone already thought he was.

Sean is whining, bitching about his god damn nose. Mark is about to hit him again to make him shut up, but then there is Dustin, hands grasping his upper arms as he drags him away. “Oh dear. This is going to be just fantastic for our PR.”

Mark roughly pulls away from his grip, cutting an immediate beeline through the stunned crowd towards Wardo. He normally would have left him be, but fate had redirected his course. He has to speak to him about it, Sean's crime to be specific, about his culpability. Now that he is aware of its existence, he could no longer enjoy the luxury of ignorance.

His ex-friend is staring at him, confusion rife in his eyes and god, Mark hates it. It reminds him of what he must have looked like when... no, that expression needs to jump off a cliff right this very second. 

He didn't want to think about Wardo's quiet whimpers, both of arrant pain and pleasure. Abbout how fucking hot his moans are when they're genuine. Nope, not the time or place.

His outward attitude remains neutral, but Wardo would be able to see right past that thin veil into how distraught he was.

“Why didn't you tell me?” His accent is terse and callous, precisely how Eduardo remembered him to be.

“Tell you _what_ , Mark?” he sounds almost offended, irate that _he_ was the one being accosted. His only crime had been to watch with a smirk while Sean received what was coming to him. If anything, Eduardo was pissed that it had been Mark and not him. But why had he done it? Why had he punched his role model, his flawless hero?

Mark looks at him as though it is obvious. It is so predictable of Mark to expect Eduardo to read his mind. 

When he takes too long to react, Mark grabs his wrist and tugs him in the direction of the exit before releasing him, leaving the choice up to him. The concept is beyond amusing because even when he has a choice, he really _doesn't_. He's too damn curious for one, but it all boils down to the fact that he's never been very good at saying no to Mark in the first place.

And thus, like an idiot, Eduardo follows him, grumbling out an incredulous, “You're insane.”

Dustin has a car ready for them, mouth slightly agape at the appearance of such an old acquaintance. He shakes his head – nothing but trouble would arise from asking. He'd have to eventually, of course. The press would need a plausible explanation for this mess. Fortunately, not this instant. Regardless, he couldn't give them one even if they were to prostrate themselves before him.

Now alone – there is a barrier between them and the driver, and even if there wasn't, Mr. Buckelew is a man who is paid to be discreet - Eduardo's unsettling gaze turns on his ex-best friend.

“You need to tell me exactly what is going on. Right now.”

“You should have told me,” Mark's face is solemn, giving it all away if only Wardo would read him like he once had, “I would have... Things would have been different.”

“Mark,” Eduardo warns, about ready to signal the driver to pull over. He didn't even know why he was here, why he had permitted himself to be trapped like this.

“That night before you froze the account, you said you were trying to get my attention. I know why now, and it hardly had anything to do with Facebook. You can't tell me I'm wrong.”

Eduardo sucks in his breath, releasing it as he runs a desperate hand through his substantial mass of brown hair. “I don't know what you're referring to,” is his lame response.

“Sean was talking about it. In detail.” 

Eduardo visibly pales, eyes glazing over with stark recognition. “What?” His voice trembles with sick disbelief, a second away from lapsing into his old bad habit of biting his fingernails.

“He was lying, though. Said you asked for it. You didn't, did you?”

Eduardo is at a loss for a polite reaction, “Are you kidding me? You can't just... Screw you, Mark. You never change.”

“How is this not a change? I am sitting here, talking to you, trying to... Nevermind, but I have changed. I'm still not any good at this, but I am trying. Why else would I have punched Sean?”

“If you say that you did that for me, I swear to God, I will never speak to you again,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated and teetering on hysteria.

“I thought you'd already promised that,” Mark retorts.

“Shut up, Mark. This isn't going to work. Whatever you think you know has no relevance. We're done.”

“So he did fuck you, correct? All I want to know is if you wanted it.” 

No need to sugar-coat it. He is utterly uncouth, but would Wardo really count on him being anything to the contrary?

Eduardo just stares at him, positively shell-shocked. 

Was this really happening? Was Mark Zuckerberg actually asking him, words smooth and steadfast, if he'd had consensual sex with Sean Parker? As if he gave a shit? He was over five years too late, if that was the case.

“Yes. Every second, you asshole.” His answer is bitter, charged with deliberate spite. How dare Mark bring all of this to the surface. The truth would not have fazed him all those years ago, and the same should be said of the here and now.

“You're lying.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“Because I _know_ you.”

“Do you? I thought I knew you too. Look at where that got me.”

“Please, Wardo...”

“Don't call me that. You don't get the right. And you can't say 'please' as though I still have an obligation to do anything for you. You haven't talked to me in years, why now?”

“I told you why. I found out that Sean had raped you.”

Eduardo flinches from how casual the word seems after it had been dipped in Mark's tactless lilt. 

“He didn't...” 

Eduardo is not sure why he says it. He supposes denial is his defense-mechanism. Obscuring reality had worked for him so far. After that night, after he'd allowed his helplessness to leak over the brink by freezing the account, he had shoved any remnants of trauma into the farthest reaches of his mind. 

It is not his intent to martyr himself when he denies that he had been drugged, that it had been forced. He just wants to forget it, that's all. He had come so close to that goal, despite the random nightmares and the constant fear of encountering Sean again – like he almost had tonight.

Except that he'd nearly feared talking to Mark more.

“Stop pretending,” Mark demands, somehow managing to sound morally superior. 

His effortless arrogance grates on Eduardo, causing his fists to curl involuntarily. Mark didn't understand, he couldn't. He was an insensitive bastard. He wasn't concerned with the problems of mere mortals. What could he possibly gain from drudging up the past like this? What piece was Eduardo missing?

“Drop the act. This whole 'caring' schtick doesn't suit you,” he says.

Mark couldn't blame his skepticism. Mark had been stripped of the benefit of the doubt. Yet, he was being honest and Wardo should know that.

He has enough money to go back to Harvard debt free multiple times over and yet the one thing he wants, he had forsaken long ago. When he'd tossed Wardo aside, he had truly assumed he could repair what he'd done. That he could sew them back into working condition.

He had thought Wardo would understand that it had not been personal. He thought they'd go back to their Harvard routine, which consisted of virtually one-sided favors, with Wardo making sure he got enough sleep and ate a decent meal at least once every few days. 

Wardo had been his guardian, and Mark had failed him the one time he could have returned the gesture. Granted, he could probably never properly reciprocate even if he wanted to. He didn't know where to begin, considering all he had permanently fucked up. Not to mention he sucked at the whole humility thing...

Whatever, the point is that he is inadvertently and irrefutably in love with Eduardo Saverin.

Ever since that night in the bathrooms with, what was her name... oh did it really matter? He'd heard Wardo, and it was his voice that he'd focused on. Not the girl sucking his cock, but the muffled noises of pure ecstasy which his friend had miserably failed to keep contained. Mark had been certain in that moment that he wanted him, though, it hadn't quite registered that he also loved him.

It was not until Wardo was gone that he'd taken the time to measure the magnitude of what he'd lost. 

All things considered, after not much rumination at all, he is absolutely confident that Wardo still loves him too, or at least had the potential to love him again. He was simply curbing the urge to let Mark back in, validated by the festering pang of betrayal. Mark would rectify that. If only he could earn the chance to do so.

Mark's eyes give that little narrowing twitch, the one he makes whenever he is attempting to conceal his discomfort, “I'm not trying to be disingenuous.”

“Then what are you trying to be?”

“I'm...” He knows what to say, and there were so many viable ways to say it. _i miss you_ , _i'll make up for what i did to you_ , but especially and most unattainably _i am so sorry_.

They all sort of mesh together and come spilling out in a crumble of pitiful sincerity.

“I want to be there for you like I wasn't before. I want to try to make up for the pain I put you through. I miss you, and I know for sure that I love you.” 

He speaks so quickly that anyone who is not Wardo could never hope to make any sense of it. But he still doesn't say he is sorry.

Eduardo merely blinks his doe-brown eyes, riddled with scorn,“Yeah, right. Okay. Fuck you, Mark, you don't get to drop this on me. You don't get to come back into my life and just pick up where you left off. I am not some broken link ready to be recoded, you prick.”

He barely pauses to take a breath before continuing, “And you sure as hell cannot say that you love me. You decided you wanted me out of your life, you set me up, _you wrote me out_. You can't just change your mind because your moral compass started working for the first time in your pathetic existence.”

Mark inwardly winces, but he doesn't argue. He permits him this petty display of vengeance. It is long overdue anyways.

“I take back what I said earlier. I don't want to know why you didn't tell me. I know why,” Mark says like he should have realized it earlier, “What I want to know is if you can forgive me for letting it happen.”

“No. Because it has nothing to do with you. Not that.”

“Not true in the slightest. Sean did it to drive a wedge between us. And it worked didn't it?”

“What he did had nothing to do with us! I had already decided to freeze the account and I know you had already planned on stabbing me in the back. There is no reason to talk about this. Let it go – I have.”

“No you haven't. How could you? He raped you. Why won't you acknowledge it rather than deceiving yourself?”

Eduardo's face gets hot, “Don't tell me how to handle something like that.”

“So you admit it? It happened? He ra-”

“Stop it, Mark. I am telling you to stop fucking talking,” and it was then that Mark notes the tears lining his expressive brown eyes. 

Wardo's poignant gaze tells him everything he needs to know. Mark had always kept his sentiments locked up behind seemingly indifferent shrugs and witty remarks, whereas Wardo had always been the extrovert. Mark never allowed anyone in, only Wardo, and ultimately, all he had done to reward his selfless friendship was, as Erica had once put it, torture him for it.

It is strange to see their traditional roles reversed – Mark prying emotions out of Wardo rather than the other way around. For once, it was not his catharsis that was the unhealthy one. It was reassuring to know that circumstances could be altered. That, maybe, he really had matured.

Eduardo looks away from him, sniffing as he raises an arm to nonchalantly wipe at his unbidden tears. 

“What did you figure was going to happen, Mark? That I'd tell you everything and it'd all be ramen and rainbows?” His syllables are clipped short and thick.

“I've already given you everything,” he sounds broken, “What else can I possibly have to offer?”

Mark doesn't miss a beat, “I already told you what I want. I want you back.”

“I...” Eduardo tries, unable, choking, “Do you even comprehend the amount of shit you put me through?”

Mark's face gives a subtle shift, “No, Eduardo, I don't. So tell me. I'll listen this time.”

Eduardo catches his stare, contemplative, a flash of hatred brewing before it vanishes. The tenseness in his shoulders lessen and a bitter smirk forms on his pursed lips, “I did love you. Once. I would have done anything for you. Sean saw that, and he used it against me. He knew and **you** didn't. I can't ever forgive you for that.”

“I know, but I can still try, can't I?” Mark states, matter-of-fact.

Eduardo says nothing in return. Hostility is bright in his irises but somehow there lies a glint of a smile. 

Mark is chasing after him. There was the prospect of persuading him to apologize, eventually. It is all Eduardo had ever really wanted – for Mark to follow him, to mend things between then like a normal human being, by _trying_.

Mark was left to ponder why Wardo's bloodshot eyes have softened with a smile. Maybe he was satisfied with that answer, or so angry that he couldn't muster a reply. Or hell, maybe he was just too tired to fight – everyone knew it was exhausting to be around him. It didn't even matter though, because Mark had obtained precisely what he'd come for. He could tell by the way Wardo leaned into his seat, wholly comfortable, that he was being given a second chance.

Mark wouldn't take him for granted this time. He'd do this right.

He'd personally see to Sean Parker's public and private execution, and he'd do it all for Wardo's sake. It wouldn't make up for Mark's ignorance or the lawsuit, but it was certainly a step in the right direction – a step that he had never thought he'd risk. 

It wouldn't be easy. It could take months, years, but he'd give Wardo all that and more, because he deserved the dedication. Mark would fix what he had helped to ruin.

**Author's Note:**

> Just translated the Portuguese in google, so sorry for any inaccuracies! 
> 
> “Eu vou te matar.” - I'll kill you.  
> “ Eu te odeio.” – I hate you.


End file.
